By the time they reached the Crown Prince's and Crown Consort's palace, Dean had remembered that official life was not only inconvenient but also extremely well lit.
That felt personal.
The car rolled through the inner gates just before evening, passing beneath pale stone arches carved with the old crest of Alamina. Guards stood at attention along the entrance path, their uniforms immaculate, their eyes forward, and their faces disciplined into a neutrality that made Dean suspicious right away.
Dean stepped out of the car wearing the travel collar, Arion's sweater under a fitted coat, and the expression of a man prepared to start a war with anyone who mentioned Ylico, rest, or the fact that he had been absent from structured society for several days.
Beside him, Arion looked entirely composed.
That was deeply offensive, considering Dean knew for a fact that his husband was also tired, still sore, and one badly timed staircase away from private suffering.
